


anyway heres wonderwall

by feltstrips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Blood, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Poetry, Prose Poem, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: for night air on sunburn





	1. trigger finger

**Author's Note:**

> this was very much so inspired by siken and good morning fire eater

1  
you weren't supposed to do this,  
it wasn’t right to go back in that back room.  
he let you skin your knees on the title floor anyway,  
all color-coordinated to the rugburn on your elbows.

2  
it takes the first chord of a song you've never heard  
to set you agonizing,  
bones so,  
so tired,  
too old for your body  
and too in love for your own good.  
nonetheless,  
your own good wasn't all that good to you, really.  
sorry, mama, but you don't want good.

3  
desire is only for dark roads, for night air on sunburn, for  
never and always hissed into a  
warm flannel jacket you borrowed once  
and intended to give back,  
honest.

4  
in some dreams, you  
put yourself in the ground.  
hear the dirt hit your lid  
and chew your lip bloody  
because they say you're at peace,  
_it'll be okay, john, it'll be okay,_  
but your brother isn’t holding your hand through the silk lining  
so what even is the point.

5  
don't let him tell you you're not ready,  
just pull him in  
with long hair  
that tangles in his mouth while he sleeps beside you,  
long days nearly alone in the backseat,  
and long,  
long,  
long looks  
at the smoke slipping from his lips.

6  
a few hits from a pipe  
he shoplifted from a truck stop in missouri  
and you're full,  
full of dizziness and  
eager, grabby fingernails that  
catch on his peach-fuzz stubble when  
you crush against his chest,  
push your smoke into his lungs.

7  
feel him breathe in, suck you down,  
and feel him wrench away.  
that look he gave you hurt deeper than any deja-vu ever could.

8  
'cause feeling something happen again only means you've lost it,  
thrown it away without a second glance  
or the empty kindness to say  
_baby boy,_  
_baby brother, i'll never forget you, honest._  
'cause deja-vu means he doesn't want to remember what you were like when  
he came home late  
with hands stained primrose.  
the pretty, pretty girl he'd fucked in the shower  
liked to have her dyed hair pulled at the roots.

9  
if there's no gauze in the first aid kit,  
you'll stitch yourself closed  
with string from that old t-shirt of his  
you hide under your pillow.

disinfectant is a fun size bottle  
of glitter hand soap  
found under a motel sink,  
so he has to kneel at your feet,  
clip away clumsy threads,  
and wipe the pus from your skin.

when he sews you together again,  
you grasp at excuses to squeeze his hand  
and pant into his shoulder. the bandages he wraps  
softly, slowly,  
as if you'd break at any more pain  
itch like his breath at your neck.

10  
papercuts with rock salt ground into them,  
the circle he poured around himself  
was brushed away  
by your bleeding, burning fingers on his skin.  
if you're soaking up poison, you'll kill him too.  
but this is just salt, so,  
throw it out the window  
let the wind rushing past his hands  
drag it away.

11  
you know this song,  
swear on your grave,  
swear on the way  
feet walk over it  
and send tremors into your casket.  
still,  
it can't be named,  
because wishful thinking never ends well.

12  
truly, you've known  
this music hasn't played here before  
and your grave means nothing.  
mama, mary, you're so sorry,  
but your bones rotted from this body years ago.


	2. prayer to wolfsbane and silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kick up your feet, kid,  
> stomp on the sign that says  
>  _here be monsters just for you._  
>  go bury dad's knives,  
> the lighters in your pocket.  
> go bury your head in the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fjfkgkglg I'm. sorry.
> 
> dean's POV this time, n like. you remember the line about the girl with the dyed hair in the last chapter? yeah. this is....about how sam reacted.

1  
when your brother walked in,  
he walked into the room with a bottle.

you thought it was wine,  
and you can’t stand wine,  
can’t stand for it.  
neither can he,  
maybe.

_(it reminds you of when he was young and_  
_you were dying_  
_'cause he stopped listening to anyone when_  
_he caught you pink-handed._  
_he caught you and got you_  
_so drunk.)_

2  
the difference is  
your slow suicide was in a shower stall  
and his was puking into the toilet when  
he thought no one would notice.

3  
smell that  
rubbing-alcohol trail of whiskey  
following you.

_(it's from a crystal glass_  
_dad left on the bumper one time._  
_he drove away with it still balanced on_  
_the car you liked to call home),_

you hate it, but  
catch the trail you’re supposed to follow  
and walk out on the roof to take in air.

4  
the bottle wasn’t wine,  
even when you called it that  
for the sake of being corrected.  
he aged with you,  
you didn’t die,  
and that wasn’t a hangover,  
it was rotten-grape vomit smeared on doors that  
dad asked about for weeks.  
you woke up in a nest of damp towels.

the bottle was green and  
full of irish whiskey.  
you were naked when you stopped  
sleeping,  
stopped drinking  
because somehow you were always naked  
or lying facedown in a pair of  
jc penny boxers.

_(and his shirt, but_  
_don't tell yourself that part.)_

5  
romance would be good.  
would romance be good?  
now could you push someone

_(you know who)_

against the wall even  
with all those inches,  
all his height,  
let him tower over you and ask him  
what’s in the bottle?

6  
your brother walked in with a  
green bottle of irish whiskey and  
you only asked why he had it.

7  
it’s the same as your childhood.

_(the one you didn't really have.)_

here’s where you slipped up,  
this is where you slipped on a patch of  
black ice you’ve  
draped out for yourself,  
painted onto the fake wood of a  
folding camp table or  
the blacktop,  
cutting into your bare feet,  
cause you ain’t got no red carpet yet.

8  
this is your home.  
this is the last room on  
the last mile of  
the end of the road.  
this is the only sign left that says  
vacancy.

kick up your feet, kid,  
stomp on the sign that says  
_here be monsters just for you._  
go bury dad's knives,  
the lighters in your pocket.  
go bury your head in the sand.

9  
years later,  
years older, you told him  
_you were kissing me._

he said  
_yeah. sounds like one fucked-up_  
_bottle dream._

10  
but you didn’t spell this history wrong.  
stop telling yourself that.

_(stop begging him to tell you that.)_

call off the assassins,  
shoot the monster under his bed,  
swallow the irish whiskey.

**Author's Note:**

> why cant i write anything without mentioning weed


End file.
